


I'll Crawl Home To Her

by bottlefame_brewglory



Series: It's Empty In The Valley Of Your Heart [2]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-07-27 02:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7599247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liz and Dembe race to save Reddington from the clutches of the Cabal, while Liz fights her own demons and revelations about the Concierge of Crime.</p><p>Sequel to She Put Her Scar Upon My Skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. She Cut To Their Heart, She Bled Them Dry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Callous his hands, his heart bled dry,  
> He kept his fire in the clutch of his eyes,  
> He painted with a dark stroke, dirty on the canvas,  
> Creation was holy, but we chose against it,  
> The Devil knows he’s evil, there’s no need to proclaim.”– Foxbeard, Run River North

The breeze whistles, cold and relentlessly, through the empty space, an unseen force roaring into the gaping maw of darkness. It gusts as it would if it were racing down the shoreline or whipping through the canopies of trees, yet instead of being crisp, fresh, the air is stale, musty, _poisonous_. Steel glints as the mountainous clouds, so far above, dark and foreboding, reveal the moon, silver rays bleeding blue light through the filth stained windows. Rats scurry through the darkness, climb inside the walls, chattering and squealing in conflict, the warehouse seemingly coming alive with their movements. Iron creaks, a chain latched to the ceiling, swinging ever so slightly to and fro, its bounty strung up, toes brushing the floor. Copper pipes whisper with the movement of water. The steady drip of blood, thick and sticky as it runs over forearms, creeps down temples, dangles from parted lips, a rhythmic flow.

Hours before, when the sun hung high in the sky, burning through the heavy cloud cover, the sickening, wet _crunch_ of brutality filled the silence. Rubber squeaked against the floor, a foot dragged back as an elbow was cocked, a sharp inhale of breath before flesh and bone collided with flesh and bone. A grunt, a cough, the sound thick with blood and then another swing, rinse, wash, repeat. Hardened eyes and stony exteriors took no joy from the cruelty, no satisfaction; it was paid work, a _job_. Sweat dripped down their ribcages, made their brows slick, as they rotated shifts, pummelling the sack of bruised and damaged meat that swayed before them. And when their arms grew heavy and their knuckles were split and bleeding, a crowbar sat close by at hand, crusted with rust.

Somewhere deeper into the building, a door screeches open, hinges howling for oil. A light flickers into existence, burning and bright, white and _blinding_. The chain groans, iron hook grating, metal against metal, as its occupant startles, eyes aching as the dim warehouse bursts to life. Footsteps tread closer, footwear not suitable for the tedious process of torture, Italian leather soles tarnished with blood, slipping on flesh that’s been scraped free by rough concrete, embedded in stone.

As the new arrivals step into the light, their shadows fall over their victim, a blanket of darkness, a shroud of danger and promise. A mess of tattered clothes, purple bruises, red blood, he hangs with arms hooked taut above him, toes brushing the puddle of crimson. Chest bellowing with deep steadying breaths, muscles trembling with tension, wrists cradled by leather and iron, he makes no effort to acknowledge them, keeps his head down.

“Hello, Ray.”

Green eyes snap open, emerald meeting sapphire, blue and hazy with age, as he raises his battered skull. Looking past the swollen flesh that creeps at the edges of his vision, specks of blood marring the image, Alan Fitch stares back at him. Remorse is carved into the caverns of his flesh, body sagging with exhaustion, the same maroon scarf wrapped snugly around his throat. He is still all broad shoulders, flat chest and staggering height, a towering beast of a man who Raymond Reddington had once called mentor, a lifetime ago. His hands are clasped before him, skin thin as parchment, waxy and yellow, his thumb brushing over his index finger, a nervous gesture.

Once a mentor, then a dubious ally, and now his executioner.

Red had been young, naive, climbing the ranks of the Navy, many superiors taking notice of his talent and intelligence, until Alan was whispering in his ear, guiding him along the way with gentle words of advice and a soft smile of encouragement. A man he could trust, steady and firm, so similar to his own father.

From a scrawny recruit, he grew and grew into a natural leader, until there had been hints given, promises made, Fitch, a major figure in the world of espionage, having the power to accelerate Raymond’s position into something _greater_. Blindly trusting a handler of spies, following orders to the letter, taking all assignments no matter the dubious moralities that were swept under the rug, Red could taste success like warm butter on the back of his tongue, his family at home fuelling him to become the best he could be. Pride had burned in the blue eyes that now gaze at him in disappointment, the kind of pride one would bestow upon a well trained hound, though Raymond did not realise it at the time. It was the Cold War, there were spies to run, Russians to contain, and Red was serving his country, patriotism bleeding red, white and blue through his veins.

Until that same country turned on him like a feral beast, an innocent girl’s life thrust into danger, and Alan Fitch hunting him down, in Raymond’s eyes, a turned traitor himself. The country and man he’d pledged his allegiance to, his _life_ , had called for his blood the moment he dared to question their motives.

“We had a deal,” Red croaks, coughing, attempting to clear the agony and congealing blood that slowly slides down his gullet, chokes his throat. Still, after twenty years, the harsh sting of betrayal prickles at his already torn flesh.

“Oh, you _had_ a deal,” chimes a voice beside Fitch, condescending, soft, “that no longer stands, Reddington.”

Dragging his gaze to the side, biting down the ache of bone grinding against bone, his shoulders protesting, Red swings to face the man by Fitch’s side. He’s taller than Alan, much thinner, his facial features are not that of a bloodhound, but angular, cutting. Silver framed glasses are perched over his hooked nosed; covering deep set eyes, the hue of scorched hazelnuts. Skin that’s been kissed by the sun complements the silver of his hair, contrasting starkly with the thick black eyebrows that accentuate the many creases of age that mar his forehead.

He knows the face, recognises the facial features with a clarity that turns his stomach, the measly contents having already spilled forth where his audience now stands. He knows the man, has never seen him in person, but Raymond Reddington has been playing Cat and Mouse with the CIA for a _long_ time.

“Alan has been a staunch believer over the years that you possess the Fulcrum, Raymond,” The Director murmurs, clasping Fitch on the shoulder, “He’s most likely the reason you’re alive, the reason we’ve _kept_ you alive.”

There is no response given, the warehouse falling silent. Red rolls his tongue around his mouth, working at torn flesh, a gaping hole where a molar used to reside, evicted by the unforgiving brutality of brass knuckles. The iron tang of blood coats his tastebuds, his body aching something fierce. His concentration wanes, it ebbs and flows with the waves of agony that wrack his body.

“However, there are some of us, in our organisation, that believe you are bluffing,” he drawls, taking a step closer, Alan seemingly melting into his shadow. “At first we were just going to kill you, deal with whatever coincidences occurred, the wrath of an empire that had its head cut off which would soon be withering beneath the sheer magnitude of our own establishment.”

Red can see the bloodshed already, the futile contingencies Kate and Dembe would put in place. The lives of his people lost, wasted, ranks upon ranks of men and women falling one after the other, the earth awash with blood, all of them decimated by a Clandestine Government. The grief over his death fuelling them until it killed them. There would be nothing left of the Concierge of Crime, the criminal underworld would erupt into chaos, gangs, mobsters, assassins, all striving to take his place. Arms deals would continue to be made, politicians corrupted, money laundered and distributed. The world would keep spinning, the rotten mess of society voraciously racing onwards.

The world would keep spinning with no one left in it to protect Lizzie from the horrors that even now are creeping out her of her past. Demons hidden behind suits and false smiles, souls sticky with tar, black and putrid, all clambering forwards from the fiery pits of Hell, determined to drag her away with them. Forked tongues licking blood from their lips as they pour themselves another glass of wine, furthering agendas as they sit across from other monsters, bound in flesh though having abandoned basic human principles _decades_ ago.

She’d been his salvation, a second chance, someone to _strive_ to be better for. At first she’d been a young delicate child in need of protection, security, in need of the love Sam could provide her. But now, _now_ , she is woman grown, a fierce storm, tugging him into her orbit, and he’s all but helpless before her beautiful fury.

He will never forget the porcelain skin, soft and silky, beneath his fingertips, rough with decades of slaughter. Blue eyes burning, _molten_ , staring up at him, rose-pink lips parted as she leant forwards, pressed kisses to his throat, jaw, collarbone, _branding_ him in the most pure way possible. Moans and gasps and _Lizzie_ spilling from the back of his throat as she’d smiled up at him, flushed and _spectacular_. A monumental shift taking place, _trust_ and understanding flowing between them, two souls that had overcome so much, battled through a world that was so entirely against them, finding peace if only for a moment.

And then there were fingers grasping cold sheets where they should have met warmth, panic flooding loose muscles with tension and adrenaline. Those same eyes filling with tears as they stared at him, bleeding betrayal, delicate skin rubbing raw where her wrists were strapped together. Questions had spilled forth from lips that wept blood, split by the deceptive man that loomed over her, voice choked with grief, _hurt_. Revelations exploded to life around them, Red helpless to prevent the truth from ricocheting around the grim walls of her apartment, watching her flinch as the words dug into her skin, cut at the most tender and vulnerable parts of her soul. Moans and gasps were replaced by splintered wood and gunfire, the dull thud of Tom Keen’s body sinking to the floor after Red _finally_ released a round into his chest, the coward spilling from behind Lizzie as she tumbled to the floor. Everything had blurred, his throat growing raw from shouting her name, savage growls of fury, as he battled and wrestled against the men that had come to take them, to take _her_.

Dembe’s form had hovered over her, shielding her from the spray of metal that tore and shredded the derisory furnishings of her apartment, debris and feathers clouding into the space around them. Blood had smeared across the timber, a river of red, as Dembe dragged her to safety. Blue had been shaded by the pale flesh of her eyelids, strands of hair that had been splayed around her like a halo the night before, chocolate tresses contrasting with milky skin, were wrapped around her throat, caught between the delicate creases of her neck. His own men, ambushed, injured, but battling all the same, ruptured into the room like a swarm of ants, gun fire erupting from the barrels of their weapons. The Cabal’s men functioned as a whole, a beast, as one, their movements flawlessly timed, in sync. They had been expecting retaliation, returned fire immediately as soon as Baz led the remains of his unit past the threshold.

After that, a bag had been shoved over his head, a syringe plunged into the soft tissue of his shoulder, darkness shrouded him and he knew no more.

“But _then_ we made some discoveries about your new friend,” Peter continues, “Elizabeth.”

Lizzie had been shot, bleeding, _wounded_.

Red doesn’t move. His green eyes are latched to the man that now stands before him, a phantom he’d never wished to see. Scars flow between them, deep chasms carved into both flesh and conscious, blood spilt that will never be flushed away, opponents from the beginning until the very end. Strangers tied inextricably together, history sparing no one.

“I do wonder how Katarina would react,” he ponders, cocking his head to the side, a mirthless chuckle seeping out between his thin lips.

Red swallows past the lump in his throat, tries to blink away the image of Katarina, even though her spectre sits with him at every waking moment, stares at him with the eyes of her daughter, haunts him into his dreams, a silent presence, never speaking, never weighing judgement but _always there_. It is not the first time she has sat with him during captivity, as he wriggled from shackles, shivered from the cold, coughed up blood and lay in his vomit, a groaning heap of twitching nerves and bruised muscles, she always watched on.

“What do you think, Raymond? What would she say knowing that you’re now sleeping with her daughter?”

Determining whose reaction would be worse, Sam’s or Katarina’s, is near impossible in Red’s current state of mind, but the thought manages to bring a smile to his lips, oozing with blood and stinging bitterly in the cold. They’d both kill him; that would be certain, Sam would use his hands, pummel him into a bloody pulp, choke the life out of him, as would be expected. Katarina would be less predictable, switching from lacing him with poison and watching him deteriorate for weeks to burying a bullet in his cranium and having it be done with.

Peter is stepping closer, leaning in so his breath is hot against Raymond’s neck. The stench of blood surrounds them, causes their nostrils to sting with the iron tang of it. It’s an intimidation tactic, as if he could be so easily startled. Red lifts his head, meets the hazelnut gaze of The Director and purses his lips, blows him a kiss, much to the other man’s bewilderment. A scoff is given and then he is stepping backwards, turning to Fitch, giving a sharp jerk of his head. It counts as a win.

“Alright, that’s enough, let him down,” Alan orders, voice gruff, men materialising from the shadows, as members of the Cabal tend to do. “Come on, get him a chair.”

They jostle him, his blood smearing across black fatigues and battle gear as they reach up to loosen his bonds. Metal scrapes against concrete, a chair dragged forward and propped before Alan. Fingers dig into tender flesh as they lower him, a wheezing grunt hissing forth as his body collapses onto unforgiving steel. Bracing his forearms on the damp material of his trouser legs, he tips forwards, attempts to lessen the pressure on his ribs. His shoulders are _burning_ , aching, throbbing, surely hanging loose from their sockets after the tension they’d been subjected to.

“Give us the Fulcrum, Ray.”

It’s a continuous circuit they find themselves on, vicious and endless, a stalemate. The Cabal wants the Fulcrum, Raymond wants to live, desperately wishes to protect Lizzie. It’s that simple.

And it’s now the reason why Peter is here, looming between them, a deadly mediator amid the war Fitch and Reddington have raged upon each other for the past two decades. Alan has lost the organisation’s trust, is slowly but surely slipping down the slope of destruction, so consumed by fear of what those files contain, crippled by age. The Director is stepping in; driven by his own motives, revenge coating the back of his tongue, lust for power burning and corroding his veins. Fitch will either step down, or be killed.

There is no question that the Cabal know who tipped Reddington off, why he was readying to flee the country.

And if it hadn’t have been for Tom Keen, he and Lizzie would have made it.

“Do what you have to do,” he rumbles, staring across at Fitch, each breath agonising, “Torture me, beat me, it won’t make a difference. I will not be divulging the location of the Fulcrum.”

The two men stare at him, Alan’s lips thin, expression displeased and Peter’s eyebrows quirked in amusement. They know of Red’s training from the Navy, his life experience, Fitch particularly. They have a detailed knowledge of the captivity he has already suffered through, _survived_ through. It is ingrained into his being, this determination and perseverance that stumps Clandestine Governments, causes them to stumble to a halt. Water-boarding, beatings, brandings, whippings, may break flesh and bone, spill blood until it floods the floor and soaks into the boots and socks of his captors, but Red’s mind, blackened and _tarnished_ from the years of violence he has subjected it to, is steel and _iron_ , unwavering.

“You seem to be under the impression that makes you invincible, Reddington,” Peter comments, “but the information Tom Keen provided us during his brief employment, well, it’s invaluable.”

 _Lizzie_.

Lizzie, with her bright smile and soft laugh, Lizzie, who runs her hand through the soft tresses of her hair when she’s exasperated, massages at her wrist when anxiety clings to her like a second skin. Lizzie, who has a freckle on her collar bone that when kissed makes her shudder, dimples in her back that flex when she walks. Lizzie, who’s stumbled through fire, and lost both her parents and _Sam_ , and is still a _decent_ person, knows right from wrong, craves justice. Lizzie, who has a history written in blood that she has no knowledge of, who trusts him, _cares_ for a monster that has sinew in its teeth and myriads of flesh made mires poisoning its soul.

“If you’re considering using Elizabeth for leverage,” he manages to rasp, trying to look past the swollen flesh of his eyes, “You’ll have an exhaustive time of finding her now.”

A snarling, raging beast bristles inside of him, though it stops snapping at the cage of his ribs. Grief ebbing from the torrent that sloshed through his veins, spilt onto the floor.  
If they’re threatening Lizzie, it means there is probable cause to believe she is alive. Wounded and running, hunted across the globe, dogged by Peter’s hired arms, a bounty lashed to her name, but _alive_ all the same.

Dembe would have whisked her away to safety at the first chance possible, having unlimited access to Red’s accounts, resources, since the day he graduated. Kate Kaplan would see to Lizzie’s medical requirements, her recovery, no matter the country they fled to. State to state, country to country, jumping from hotel rooms to apartments, manors to empty warehouses, medical staff and machinery would be trailing their movements until Lizzie is fully rehabilitated. Favours will be called in, deals made, blackmail put to use to ensure her safety and survival. His greatest weakness will be put on display for the entire criminal underground to see.

Raymond Reddington turned against his God years ago, a flurry of snow whipping around his feet and blood pooling in his living room, Christmas cheer turning to ash in his mouth, the hearth burnt out and cold. He knows that darkness will welcome him one day soon, wrap around his ankles and tug him into the fiery depths he so belongs to, _pledged_ himself to in a spray of crimson and a life of destruction. He will succumb, be it by bullet or steel, explosion or poison, Raymond is not a man that will die of old age. Faith means little to him, divine beings no longer holding sway over his actions or morals, prayers lost and forgotten on the tip of his tongue.

But sitting here, scarlet staining the floor beneath him, bones splintered and flesh torn, surrounded by ruthless mercenaries and men with souls blacker than his own, he _prays_ that Lizzie doesn’t come searching for him, that she stays _far_ away. Aching within his chest, he _prays_ that the fire that burns in her eyes when she has been wronged, dies, her care for him abolished, _wishes desperately_ that the revelations Tom Keen spat into the air are enough to drive her away, putrefy her blood with hatred for him. Fervently hopes that Dembe remains steady, rational, will reign in her passion, the volatile hurricane she can become, that he’ll take whatever action necessary to prevent her from lunging into danger.

In the end it is simple. If she comes for him, she’ll die.

“We will find her, Reddington,” Peter states, tone bored, the outcome seemingly inevitable, “No matter the contingencies your people put in place, we will find her, and then we can be certain whether you have the Fulcrum or not.”

His eyes drift back to Fitch, ignoring the Director. Alan is now seated; his hands clasped tightly in his lap, gazing at Red solemnly, something like panic, desperation flickering through the watery depths. There is no reason for him to be here, his minutes are limited now, tick tick ticking into oblivion, Peter striding into the limelight, pulling strings, giving orders, taking _control_. He should be with his wife, attempting to flee, drinking wine, _enjoying_ what he can until his front door is kicked in and a bullet has bitten through his parchment thin skin.

Not here to bargain, taking a last gasp for breath, lunging for a lone straw, clutching to it, a man drowned.

“Where is the Fulcrum, Ray?” He asks again, and a chuckle bubbles in Raymond’s throat, blood frothing at the corners of his mouth. A slash of red splits his features, a stained smile.

“Stay away from Elizabeth,” Red growls in return, “If you _ever_ want the location of the Fulcrum, you’ll call off the hunt and _leave her be_.”

“Ray,” Fitch implores, and it sounds desperate, he’s leaning forward now, looking ready to stand. An animal startled, ears pricked and eyes wide, itching to flee, bound away to safety. Raymond doubts his brittle bones could carry him half way to the door before crumbling. “Just tell us where it is.”

Slanting his head to the side and running a tongue that’s swollen and sore along his cracked lips, Red huffs out a breath. Falling from such a height, from the pinnacle of success, tumbling to the unforgiving earth below, after reaching so high, fingertips brushing the sun, Raymond knows the feeling all too well. A country turned against him, nowhere left to turn, allies morphing into enemies, he’d slunk to the shadows, with only desertion and traitor linked to his name. He’d clawed and butchered, _thrived_ in a world where the weak _died_. Fuelled by hate, driven by revenge, it was a time where he should have turned back, _gone home_. But now, he is _notorious_ , feared, a savage criminal, king of an empire. Red has grovelled at the bottom of the food-chain, has had _nothing_ , and fought back. Alan Fitch has never been in such a position, and that is why he is now staring down the barrel of a gun. He should have stopped while he was ahead, bowed down, regrouped and come back, stronger than before.

“You’ve played that card for too long, Alan,” Red remarks, “Perhaps we both have.”

Alan’s lips are pulled thin, his eyes wild and panicked. It’s the expression of a man who has lost, the tight expression of a commander passing over the reins, surrendering to the bloody end that awaits him. The past twenty years have come to this moment, one war coming to an end, an era drawing to a stop with the sound of gunfire, another bursting to life promising to be just as violent.

“You may have never known of Elizabeth’s existence, or you may have,” Red continues, his throat rasping, “And if so, I appreciate that you never targeted her, I appreciate all that you’ve done for me.”

Peter is looking between them, one of his men sidling closer, gun in hand. Fitch’s eyes are watering now, his chest bellowing with rapid breaths. His palms must be sweating, swiped along the material of his trousers. Fear is an acrid smell surrounding them.

“Look after Margret, for me, won’t you, Ray?” He asks, his voice soft, emotional almost tender. It’s the doting tone he would use to bend Raymond to his will, convince the younger man to take an assignment that would conflict with his morals, paint his soul with tar before he even realised it.

He nods his head once, Alan’s eyes slip closed and the crack of a bullet shatters the atmosphere, the spray hot and wet against Raymond’s face, mingling with the crust and rust that already mars his features. With a hollow chest, he looks down to Alan’s body, the last piece of his old life now lying dead and bleeding at his feet.

The other men are moving forward now. Hands are grabbing at him, heaving him into the air, the iron hook protesting his weight, shoulders _screaming_ in agony. Wounds that had begun to scab are split afresh, blood oozing from them, chilling in the cold. Dragging his eyes back up to Peter, the Director, the _new_ player, dangerous and unknown, he is met with a cold smile and a promise.

“She’ll be in our care in only a matter of days. You could barely keep her safe when you were near, how much danger do you think she’ll be in now, Raymond?”

And he then spins on his heel, melting back into the shadows and darkness in which he came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, the first chapter of many. Please let me know what you think! Hopefully I’ll be able to get an update soon!


	2. Heretic Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I'm miles away, he's on my mind,  
> I'm getting tired of crawling all the way,  
> I've had enough, it's obvious,  
> And I'm getting tired of crawling all the way.” – Which Witch, Florence + The Machine

Three weeks.

It’s been three weeks.

Her shoulder still aches something chronic, particularly in the mornings, a steady throb that keeps her planted in reality, latched to the sordid darkness that bristles beneath her skin. A maelstrom of emotions swirls through the thin casings of her veins, driving her towards insanity. She is swept from one place to another, never settling, never given the chance to _understand_. Dawn will split the sky asunder, rays of light stretching across the inky darkness of morning, and falling over Liz as she finds herself staring out the window of the room she has been dumped in, gazing out across oceans, cities, vineyards, forests, her chest hollow and aching. Confusion, _hurt_ , clouding her vision, even as it fuels her, terror riddled through every cavity of the battered temple of her body, pushing her onward and _onwards_ , driving her into danger, hellfire, surely about to be swallowed by the darkness of death’s gaping jaws as she runs straight into them.

Because they haven’t heard _anything_ in _three weeks_.

Dembe tells her that it is a comfort, even as sorrow bleeds into the depths of his eyes. His abductors are yet to make contact, demands, because they can’t find them, having hightailed and fled the county as soon as Liz was stable. The first few days had been hectic, smudged together, a portrait of pain smeared with bloody fingertips.

She remembers her conversation with Dembe, her vision bleeding to black as the pain became too much, the sheer _panic_ caused by Red’s absence driving her adrenaline, and in turn her body, until it gave way to oblivion. It was the distinct scent of jet fuel burning her nostrils hours later that snapped her back to the present, ripped her from unconsciousness, her body swaying with Dembe’s steady gait as he ascended the creaking stairs. The rumble and roar of the engine barrelling them into the sky kept her present, though not lucid. Soft chocolate eyes gazed down at her, a flannel pressed to her forehead, a grim smile to accompany it.

And then the delirium had soon set in, mumbling and groaning, thrashing against sweat soaked sheets, tangled around legs that wanted to _flee_. Dembe’s soothing tones merely a murmur in the hurricane of terror massacring at her thoughts. She’d seen Red standing over her; deep farrows of concern carved into his flesh, cool fingertips brushing against her forehead, green eyes gazing down at her, steady and certain. Feebly, she knows she tried to reach for him, to grasp at his suit, tie, vest, anything to pull him down to lie beside her. Except her clammy hands fells through empty air and Raymond was gone. And then Sam had crawled his way back from the dead to be by her side, the pale corpse she’d last seen of him holding her hand and murmuring her name in his cigarette choked voice.

Until she woke to a parched throat and the stench of her body odour, tangled hair and aching bones. Stern eyes behind wire framed glasses had stared back at her, lips pulled into a thin line, mousy brown hair framing a gaunt face. Liz had been given a soft pat on her hand, a murmured _the fever’s passed, dearie_ , and then Dembe was by her side once more, a glass of water in one hand and purple smudges beneath his eyes. There wasn’t much doubt in her mind that he’d sat by her side throughout the ordeal, tried to shush and calm her through the throes of her hallucinations, that he may have seen her at her most vulnerable state. She knows that she would have been calling for Red, throaty shouts of desperation. And the look Dembe had given her, sorrowful and understanding, she realised he could sympathise with her, knew what it was like to rely on said man.

Mr Kaplan has been travelling with them ever since, an invaluable resource, seeing to both Liz’s medical needs and gathering information. She is a Queen bee amongst a hive of workers, sending them buzzing off into the distance, only to return when they have gathered something of worth to lay before her high-heeled feet and unwavering gaze. It’s always the same; a bounty on Liz’s head, assassins trailing them across the globe, Red’s empire tattering at the seams, crumbling without its King, and never _any_ news of Reddington himself. It’s as if he’s vanished, disappeared, a skill he _excels_ at, sells to clients, mocking them with the irony of it all as he draws each day closer to death.

Intrusive thoughts twist inside her mind, chase her from sleep, ravage any peace she can find in the storm that lurches and surges within her. Jagged shrapnel stings, slice, _stabs_ at her, uselessness twisting her gut, as Red bleeds out in her dreams, as he drowns in her dreams, as he shivers and trembles and _screams_. Her imagination has been running wild and vivid, waiting and _waiting_ , until they know that he is certainly dead, _slain_.

And some nights he _burns_ , the acrid smell of scorched flesh following her into the world of the living, her scar itching something fierce.

Waking from those dreams leaves her trembling, muscles quivering. Disjointed images burned into her retinas, a young girl and a singed rabbit, smoke and _flame_. There is screaming and sizzling, corpses littering the floor, hands wrenching her from the heat that devours. She is so small, so _terrified_ , lost and her wrist it _burns_ it always, _always_ burns. And Liz knows upon waking that it never was a dream, that memories are being dredged forth from her subconscious, projected in this time of stress, _fuelling_ the anxiety.

She knows that it has deeply unsettled Dembe, this silence that drags on and on and _on_. They find each other at night, creeping from their bedrooms to find the other sitting on a porch, by the fireplace, expressions grim and eyes empty. No words of comfort are offered, no reassurances that they will find him. Futility tarnishes them, bleeds black; it’s a waiting game, a deplorable agony. As she sits across from Dembe, an inexorable link to Reddington, her mind drudges up memories like thick tar, poisonous, of Tom with a gun to her temple and accusations, _revelations_ , spewing into the air around them.

Liz _stumbled_ across the Concierge of Crime, a woman with vision clouded with grief, each step laden with sorrow, staggering the dark murky depths of the underworld, mud and roots tangling around her ankles and calves the more those burning green eyes gazed back at her. And from the instant he’d laid eyes on her, he’d been in wonder at the sight of her, had admitted that he knew Sam, that once upon a time they had been friends. And like a fool, blinded by questions and fear, she’d believed him, not thinking to probe deeper, to _question him further_.

He had stood before her a _criminal_ and she’d _trusted him_.

It makes her sick, her misplaced judgement, sanity, _thoughtlessness_. Blinded by the promise of justice, staggering after him with the thought, the _certainty_ , that the end would justify the means. He’d called her a vigilante, lured her until there was no turning back from the path he’d set her upon, tied to the criminal underworld, tied to _him_. She watched him sink bullets into other men, ruthlessly, without thought, had been complicit in the most heinous of acts. Innocence had been stripped from her like scorched skin, sluicing away leaving her raw and exposed.

She should _hate_ him.

Except she doesn’t, because Raymond Reddington isn’t a _monster_ , a chaotic _evil_ , Raymond Reddington is _a man_. He is a man that will make her breakfast in the morning. A man who will whisper endearments in her ear while they float around the ballroom floor, attracting the attention of everyone in the room with a soft smile he bestows only on her. He is the kind of man that will introduce her to new cuisines, music, literature, _excited_ to show her all the joys that life has offered him. He is the man that will gently tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears, will rock up at her apartment with pastries in hand and insist that she puts on something warmer before they have coffee. A man that will make her laugh so hard it aches, regaling her with wild tales of his adventures. He is the kind of man to pull her close during sleep, to snuffle against her neck and send goosebumps stretching across her skin. He is a man of soft caresses and kind words, of laughter and _joy_.

Raymond Reddington is the kind of man that would shower in blood and risk his own life to drag her away from the claws of death as they tear at her torso. He is the kind of man to _burn the world_ for her, to cake his hands in crimson and wreak havoc upon those that _dare_ to hurt her. The kind of man to stay by her bedside and tend to her wounds, to coax her from the murky depths her mind would stray to due to the darkness that plagues her. He is a man of violence and terror, of protection and _safety_.

She should _hate_ him.

But my _God_ does she love him.

And sitting here, now, on the edge of her bed, blanket clutched around her small frame, staring out across the Swiss Alps, loving Raymond Reddington may be the most painful thing she has ever done. After all the agony, the _suffering_ , after losing Sam, after almost being filleted and butchered like a prime cut of meat, the _lies_ and deception, loving Red is enough to break her mind entirely. It’s nasty and savage, unforgiving in its intensity. It’s a growing throb in her chest, the twitch of her fingers, leaving her tongue feeling heavy with words that won’t pass the sharp walls of her teeth and a body that _aches_ with the weight of it.

They may never get him back.

The chill creeps around her, tickles and prickles at her skin until her hairs stand on end and she tugs the blanket closer, wriggles her toes even as they turn numb and cold. Her gaze is drawn to the snow, gleaming white across the very tops of the mountains as the sun skulks into the sky, edging up and up over the beasts of earth and rock, bathing the valley below in the soft light of morning. There is movement further into the chalet, the soft rumble of a kettle, the scrape of metal against porcelain. Dembe is up, the sounds of domesticity filtering around their lodgings.

With a sigh, she heaves herself from the soft confines of her bed, sheets twisted, mangled and still unslept in. Once more her shoulder is aching, a dull throb that makes her grit her teeth. She gently jostles the wounded limb, hoping to balance it _just right_ to stop the pain. And as usual, it’s a fruitless venture, without results and almost making it _worse_. The strap of her brace bites into her neck, leaving angry red lashes as it fights against gravity, and when she shifts it _itches_ and _burns_ , driving her mad.

There is a cup of tea waiting for her, two lumps of sugar and cream. It is so sweet that Red used to tease her about it, tell her that her teeth would fall out and he’d be _damned_ if he had to contact, Ataroa, a dentist in Tahiti that, though exceptional at his career, had gotten him _so incredibly drunk_ that Red himself had sported some new scandalous tattoos the next day. She’d laughed, closed her eyes in bliss as the liquid lapped over her tongue, breakfast with Red, the golden rays of morning spilling across his features as he’d stood across from her.

The stories he’d tell her, his words so enrapturing, never cease to amaze. Of course, she always takes them with a grain of salt, a teasing tone and smile, a nod of her head as she tracked his movements. Raymond Reddington talks with his hands, a blurry of motion, drawing his audience in with the twitch of his fingers and the wave of his palms. And his eyes, Red’s eyes, they would _glitter_ with excitement and _life_ , so with much chagrin, Liz would find it difficult _not_ to believe him. His voice is like chocolate, _dark_ and _rich_ , drizzled over honeycomb, it’s like the thunder of the ocean, a low rumble tumbling towards the shore. He’d weave metaphors and stories, hints and clues for her, and she would sit before him and listen for _hours_ with a warm cup of tea in hand attempting to unravel the _artwork_ he was crafting.

Nowadays the tea is bitter, and there are no stories to be told.

And still she drinks it, Dembe giving her an encouraging smile from the other side of the bench, even if it’s really just a soft snarl, no light shining in his eyes, something more wretched than comforting. On the stove eggs and bacon sizzle, the distinct scent of toast wafting around them, the smell of home, so far from the truth that she feels tears prick at her eyes.

They do what they can, taking each day as it comes; a fresh wave of sorrow accompanying the herald of a new day. It’s constant, methodical, a routine that sickens her. Eat breakfast, clean up, shower, pack, leave, _hunt_. And these days of travel, never ending it seems, are punctuated with Liz’s uncertainty, voice cracking as she questions Dembe, over and over and _over_ until he falls into a brooding silence, eyes shuttered and expression grim, _so much like Raymond_.

She is a broken record, a vinyl grooved and ribbed with anguish, the needle jumping with anxiety, a melody spilling forth into the air.

_What does Reddington know about the fire?_

_Why was Tom planted in my life?_

_Who is he to me?_

_What am I to him?_

_Answer me!_

Her broken music filters around them, rasped and desolate as it splinters and bubbles from her throat, never missing a beat, consistent, with rhythm, but ugly and shameful all the same. There is hate for herself lavished over her tongue, because it isn’t Dembe’s fault, it’s not his responsibility to piece her back together, to salvage her from the wreck she is becoming. And yet he is all she knows in this dark and wild world she has been thrust into, clawing and scratching for a foothold in the surging waves that threaten to drag her under, away from reality all together. So she hounds him, wears and wears at him, like water lapping against limestone.

“If we don’t find him, Dembe,” she murmurs, staring down at her tea, the steam drifting from the surface and seeping into the cold, “If he dies, will you answer my questions then?”

She doesn’t know when she became this _thing_ , trying to bargain for answers over whether a man lived or died, attempting to bargain for answers with that man’s _best friend_ , but she is desperate and scared. The need for answers, to understand, it has become an obsession, curdling and festering within until it is one of the only things preventing her from sinking into despair due to his absence.

Dembe is staring at her now, something dark flickering through the depths of his eyes. Naturally, with close quarters and dire circumstances looming over the health of their loved one, tension can sizzle and crackle around them, between them, it can tighten jaws and muscles alike, bleed into irises until they _burn_. It results in stony silences and guilt plaguing bloodstreams, or doors closed with a bit _too much_ force.

So, in this instance, when they’re both so visibly exhausted, troubled, there is an apology balancing on the tip of her tongue, sincere and heartfelt.

But Dembe speaks first, his voice like muted thunder as it rumbles around the confines of the kitchen.

“I cannot be certain that Raymond gave me all the answers you are searching for, Elizabeth.”

Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she gnaws at the soft flesh, considering his words, looking out to the kitchen window, across the Alps and the growing sunlight. It isn’t fair to continue to push him, for him to tell her and then when, _when_ they find Red, to discover that Dembe explanations were wrong, faulty. In the end it would be a repeat process, to discover that the _new truths_ about her life were false, to accept them and then have the proverbial rug snatched from beneath feet that had just _finally_ found even footing.

“You’ll have to tell me something eventually,” she finally replies, looking up to meet his steady gaze. She does find it anchoring, in these times of turbulence, his presences, because no matter how desperately they search for him, scouring continents and countries, they may never find him. Mr Kaplan won’t hear it and neither will Dembe, but Liz has always been a realist and the possibility is there.

Raymond Reddington has always been a survivor, but the odds are distinctly not in his favour this time.

“Dembe, you have barely even offered an explanation about who is chasing us or why,” she says, and she doesn’t mean it to sound like she is complaining, or pleading, but if she is to be any help, if they stand any chance of being a formidable _team_ , she needs to understand how dire their circumstances are.

At that moment, Kaplan steps into the room, wrapped in a robe, glasses perched upon her nose and eyes already wide and alert, _sharp_. She makes her way over to the coffee pot, pours herself a brew and leans against the sink without a word, watches the both of them. Liz still finds her unnerving, but Dembe seems to trust her explicitly, which means in turn, so does Reddington.

“They are known as the Cabal,” Dembe murmurs, giving a sigh as he serves up breakfast, passes a plate to Kate and slides one across to Liz. “It’s a shadow Government, and from the information Raymond has given me, their reach is far across the globe.”

Liz nods her head, ignoring the plate of steaming food before her. It is a time to focus, to analyse and assess each and every piece of information Dembe throws her way. She needs to find a link, a way to track them down, a crack in the pavement that they can exploit, pick and dig and _mine_ at it until they can find a way to Red, can find a way to _bring him home_.

“Why are they after Reddington?” She questions and her voice is stronger now, more assertive, ringing with authority and decision. Spine straightening and bracing her forearms against the breakfast bench, she feels something like determination seep into her. Out the corner of her eye she sees Mr Kaplan give a satisfied nod.

“They believe that Raymond is in possession of a file, known as the Fulcrum.”

And before he has the chance to continue, Liz is jumping in, questions roiling like liquid over her tongue, crashing up against the back of her teeth. She’s like a child at school, expecting instructions but _too eager_ , guessing ahead, fumbling and blind.

“The Fulcrum? I don’t know what that is.”

She thinks that he throws an exasperated look her way, his brows furrowing, and she quickly clamps her mouth shut, offers him a sheepish smile and a hand gesture to continue.  
“The Fulcrum is a blackmail device, which Raymond claimed to have possession of,” he states, “It is most likely the only thing that has kept him alive all these years.”

Kate shifts by the sink, rinses out her coffee mug and methodically dries it with a tea-towel. Her expression is yet to change, observing and critical of the both of them, a mediator between the two of them, supervising with keen eyes, like a stern grandmother over her grandchildren.

“But he doesn’t have it?” Liz assumes, feeling her throat grow tight when Dembe shakes his head, looks away from her towards Kaplan. She knows that he is seasoned, that Red would have trained him well, raised him to be prepared for _everything_ the world feels fit to toss his way, but sometimes Liz can only see Dembe as a lost boy, without direction if he isn’t looming behind the Concierge of Crime.

“So, presumably they’re keeping Red alive until they’re certain that he isn’t bluffing?” She states, and Mr Kaplan is the one to nod her head this time, taking a step forward, striding into the discussion with an air of authority.

“There have been contingencies put into place that if Raymond had possession of this file and was assassinated, we were to release it.”

Liz flicks her tongue against her teeth, drums her fingertips against the countertop. Obviously releasing the Fulcrum isn’t possible, but if they are able to make contact, to _threaten_ these _Cabal_ members, it could buy time, give them the ability to locate Red.

“Do we know what these files contain? Do you have any information on them?” And she feels as if she is in full interrogation mode, her training from Quantico snapping within, like one of those glowsticks Sam would buy for her on New Year’s Eve. They’d crack beneath her nimble fingers, bright light gushing to the surface, _glowing_.

“Raymond has mentioned assassinations that have toppled Governments, conspiracies that are in fact true, the deliberate ignition of wars for profit. Money laundering, weapons trading, there doesn’t seem to be an end to it, Elizabeth,” Dembe explains, and his plate of food has been left untouched too.

“But there is no solid _proof_ , no details, nothing,” Mr Kaplan states, “We have considered doctoring some evidence, except the Cabal are _aware_ of what the Fulcrum contains. If we were to release falsified documents, it would be an admission that Raymond does not in fact have the Fulcrum, and they will not hesitate in executing him.”

Energy is buzzing around them, productivity awakening within; it’s swiping at the thick ropey cobwebs of fruitlessness that had settled over their nervous systems, choking and strangling. With the adrenaline, the ache in Liz’s shoulder is all but gone, her thoughts elsewhere, planning, preparing. She has to think like Red, to match the brilliance of a man with _decades_ more experience, to whirl to life a tactician mind that she isn’t certain she has ever had.

“So, do you have any idea where the Fulcrum is?”

She is met with a loaded silence, both of their gaze’s heavy upon her. Shifting, she waits for a response, meeting Dembe’s steady gaze. Finding emotion in his features, when he so chooses to hide them, is almost as difficult as deciphering Red’s, as if he has learned from the master, studied the art of it. It is utterly infuriating, causes her to bite at her tongue, flex her fingers.

“Currently, we do not know the location of the Fulcrum.”

There is a bitterness on her tongue, not defeat, not now, not when she feels as if they’re on the brink of a break through, now that she is _finally_ included in the plans and findings. The kitchen is plunged back into silence, the three of them in deep contemplation, ideas made, assessed and then tossed away, worthless. Politics, the Cabal, the Fulcrum, none of it matters if they don’t have Red, if they can’t retrieve him. That is their main priority, their only objective.

“I think we should make contact with the Cabal,” Liz declares and they look at her, surprised at first and then immediately shutting down, shaking their heads, “Perhaps it can give us a lead to Red.”

“The only thing Raymond cares about, Elizabeth, is your safety,” Dembe rumbles, no room for argument in the deep timbre of his voice, “He will never forgive us if we prioritize his safety over yours.”

Mr Kaplan is nodding her head in agreement, and Liz can feel the anger festering and sweltering within, because _they_ don’t have any suggestions, answers. No, they just flitter from country to country, unknowing of their employer, _their friend’s_ , fate. It makes her sick, to realise that they have been delaying searching, taking action to find Red, to ensure her safety. There is a man out there, _somewhere_ , clutched in the claws of monsters subjected to all manners of _horrors_.

“If you think I’m just going to idly sit by and _wait_ then you’re wrong,” she snarls, “If you won’t help me, I’ll find him myself. Sure, I don’t have the resources, but I managed to track down the _Concierge of Crime_ by _accident_ , just imagine what I could do on purpose.”

Electricity is humming around them. Dembe does not look impressed, his arms are folded and he’s looking down at her with a frown. Mr Kaplan, however, is _smiling_ , as if she is _proud_. Liz throws her a quizzical glance, thrown out of the tirade she had been plummeting into.

“We best get planning then, dearie.”

And to that, Dembe gives a frustrated huff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the updates for this will be much slower than the previous fic, purely because of the areas I wish to explore and the time that takes me. Anyways, I hope you’ll stick with me and that you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; I do not own the Blacklist or any of its characters.


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